


Improving Diplomatic Relations

by 0Rocky41_7



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, past France/Spain, platonic Liechtenstein/France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21608830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Madame Vivienne has the best parties in Orlais, and has promised something particularly unique for this one. Francis is intrigued, and sees a prime opportunity for playing with fire.
Relationships: France/Turkey (Hetalia)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Improving Diplomatic Relations

**Author's Note:**

> The TurkFra tag needed an update! And since I'm hella into Dragon Age lately, the crossover seemed perfect. For my Hetalia friends who are less familiar with Dragon Age, a glossary below:
> 
> Bas-saarebas: Qunlat. A non-Qunari mage. Lit. "thing-dangerous thing".  
> Beresaad: A soldier/ambassador. Qunari do not have names per say and are addressed by their role in Qunari society.  
> Celene Valmont: Empress of Orlais, facing a threat to her throne from a cousin laying claim to it.  
> Ferelden: One of the nations of Thedas. Previously a conquered territory of the Orlesian empire.  
> Minrathous: Capitol of the Tevinter Imperium.  
> Orlais: One of the nations of Thedas. Essentially fantasy France.  
> Ox-man: A slur for the Qunari used by humans, elves, and dwarves.  
> Panahedon: Qunlat. Goodbye. Lit. "take refuge in safety".  
> Par Vollen: The Qunari capitol.  
> Qunari: A race of large, horned people to the north of Thedas. There is currently peace between with the Qunari, but it is a tense peace.  
> Qun: The central philosophy of the Qunari. It governs every aspect of their society.  
> Qunlat: The Qunari language.  
> The Tevinter Imperium: One of the nations of Thedas. The only still currently at war with the Qunari.  
> Triumvirate: The Qunari government, consisting of 3 individuals.  
> Val Royeaux: The capitol of Orlais.

In all of Orlais, Madame de Fer had the best parties. Francis was a connoisseur of parties, thus he had the requisite knowledge to make such a judgement. He would also venture to say one would be hard-pressed to find someone with more grace, poise, or style than Madame de Fer. He _never_ turned down an invitation of hers, even when it meant retracting other social events to which he had already committed himself. In the case of _this_ party, however, she had intimated there was something particularly interesting to look forward to, so Francis had promptly cleared his calendar, trusting Madame Vivienne not to disappoint.

Rumors ran rampant, as they did in Val Royeaux, and by the time he arrived at the Duke de Ghislain’s estate, he had heard a hundred different iterations of what to look forward to at the party. The discussion served only to heighten the anticipation, and he would not have put it past Vivienne to release a few rumors of her own into the bunch simply to stimulate talk.

He barely got to set foot into the foyer before someone had hissed the surprise at him from behind a laquored green mask.

“There’s a _Qunari_ in there!” Now _that_ was something to talk about. Visitors from Par Vollen were rare, and they did not come about for _social_ events. If the Qunari were in southern Thedas, they were carrying spears, and anyone with a sense of self-preservation was running the other direction. How had Madame Vivienne managed such a thing? He _had_ to ask.

There was no use looking for her among the guests though: it was so _gauche_ to wander around in search of someone. He would see her when it was time. Instead, he helped himself to a flute of champagne and observed the fashions of the day. The Duke de Ghislain had given his mistress free reign of the house since the death of his wife and open access to his pocketbook for planning their parties. Eternally tasteful, Madame Vivienne’s hand was in every corner of the party décor, from the placement of the candles to the menu of drinks to the musicians chosen to play for them.

“Come alone?” The snide voice in his ear was a reminder of something _far_ less entertaining than the presence of a Qunari about: Fereldens. Francis did not grace the Earl of Kirkland with a scowl as he turned to look at him; the man was not worth mussing his pretty face for. “How tragic.” Kirkland was merely parroting back something Francis had told him—what was it, three seasons ago? Two? Who knew—Kirkland could hold a grudge, that was certain.

“Hardly,” Francis replied, lifting his flute in the direction of a short blonde dressed in orange. “Elise is there.”

“So you do remember you’re married?”

“Something I see you still haven’t managed,” Francis shot back, casting his eyes pointedly down to Kirkland’s bare fingers. “Don’t worry, my dear.” He gave Kirkland a sympathetic, patronizing smile. “I’m sure someday you’ll find someone willing to wake next to your grim face every morning.”

“At least when I take vows, I mean to stick by them!” It was so _easy_ to rile Kirkland’s temper, and so rewarding! Francis suppressed a smirk to maintain his collected appearance.

“Oh, how cute. That’s so quaint of you, Kirkland. Elise and I have an understanding, you know this.” The scoff said how much Kirkland thought of Francis’ _understanding_ with his wife—and the rest of the Orlesian court’s _casual_ view of vows of fidelity.

“I presume you’ve come to gawk at Madame Vivienne’s latest parlor trick?” Kirkland was bitter, and Francis was not sure he blamed him—the man was one of the foremost experts on magic in either Ferelden or Orlais (the only reason someone with a mere _earldom_ had made it to one of Madame de Fer’s parties), but was not a mage himself. He disapproved of any of Vivienne’s “parlor tricks”, considering them beneath such a talented mage as herself.

“You mean the Qunari? Have you seen them about? I must ask her how she managed this!” Francis finished the rest of his champagne and Kirkland shook his head, pug nose wrinkling in distaste.

“You people are on the brink of a civil war and you care more about some token guest at a party than anything worthwhile.”

“If you were so concerned about the war, you wouldn’t be here,” Francis replied with testy boredom. “Your constant assault on our culture is really cheapened by how much time you spend here, darling.”

“It’s not my fault Orlais has horded all the best books and scholars!” Kirkland snapped, his bare face reddening. Across the room, Francis caught sight of the star of the party—even through the mill of people it was hard to miss the hulking Qunari form. The man—this was a male Qunari, wasn’t it?—towered a head above even the humans, and that was before taking into account the horns. Done with his drink and done with the conversation, Francis waved a hand at Kirkland as if to dismiss an unneeded serving boy.

“Long live Empress Celene and may we never see civil war brought to bear,” he concluded, walking away from Kirkland without another glance.

The Qunari hung about a shadowed wall, a semi-circle of empty space around him as Madame Vivienne’s guests gave him berth, failing miserably to be subtle about their ogling. The Qunari’s horns, at the base, were thick around as Francis’ forearm, and reached up a good six or seven inches from the top of his head before curling around, not unlike a ram’s. One was capped in gold, the other appeared to have had the tip snapped off in some brawl or another. His shoulders were as broad as a plow and Francis felt a _twinge_ of guilt that the term _ox-man_ was so appropriate. The crushed velvet jacket he wore had been crafted to his size, which prevented any strain of the seams, but did not hide the power of his frame. _Bred for war_ did not seem inaccurate for describing the race as a whole.

The Qunari had thought to don a mask for the occasion, even—a simple white domino. Francis wondered if this was a mere faux pas, or if he was making a statement by choosing something so out of fashion. Francis’ own mask shielded his face from his upper lip to his hairline, but many others had hidden their faces entirely. Kirkland wore none, tragic plebian that he was.

As he watched, no one approached to speak with the Qunari and for a moment, Francis hesitated. His reputation in the city was known—Kirkland made frequent use of it to ridicule his promiscuous ways—and it would taint any view of his approaching now. He had never been able to escape the rumors of his dalliance with an elf early in his marriage with Elise (they were mostly true) and he was sure assumptions would be made the moment he extended a word to the Qunari. Then he remembered that he was _Francis Bonnefoy_ and more than able to swim in dangerous waters without drowning. Playing with societal ruin was his _hobby._ And where was the fun in social events without a bit of risk?

He stepped into the empty space around the Qunari.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

“Lost?” The massive head turned to look down at Francis. In the darkness, he could not determine if the Qunari’s eyes were brown or some other color. What kinds of colors were Qunari eyes? Francis had never been near enough to say. The Qunari’s ears twitched and his eyes flicked past Francis to the rest of the crowd. “Is this space to be used for something?”

“Oh, no. It’s just that we’ve never see a Qunari at an Orlesian party before. I thought perhaps you had lost your way and no one had offered you directions.” A smile twitched on Francis’ lips, but the Qunari’s mouth turned down and Francis could see him sealing off again.

“I was invited,” he said brusquely.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to imply you _shouldn’t_ be here,” Francis said. “Only that it is unusual. We welcome unusual sights; they are a staple of Madame de Fer’s parties.” If this Qunari were here, he could not be a warrior, yet his shoulders were still broad enough he might have to turn sideways to pass through narrow doorways. For what purpose had he come?

“Madame de Fer? I was invited by First Enchanter Vivienne.”

“Ah. Madame de Fer is a fond nickname,” Francis explained. “The Iron Lady. I think it suits her quite well.” The Qunari nodded, then turned his gaze back to the far wall. Disappointed this engagement was not proving more… _engaging_ , Francis pressed again. “Are you an ambassador for the Qunari?”

“Yes.”

“I have not seen many Qunari ambassadors.”

“There aren’t many.”

“What should we call you?”

“I am Beresaad.”

“Is that your name?”

“It is my title. It is my job. It’s what I do.” He must have taken something from the look Francis was giving him and relented to explain. “We do not have names under the Qun as you do.” This Francis had heard, but like many other things he had heard about the Qunari, it was impossible to parse as truth or fantasy.

“Is there nothing more personal we might use?” Francis asked.

“Nothing I would give to you,” Beresaad answered, giving Francis a stern look, but without true bite in his tone. “I have known you only a few minutes.” Another smile pulled at Francis’ mouth.

“Perhaps later then,” he suggested. “When we are more familiar.” He met the Qunari’s eyes, though he had to tilt his chin up to do it. Beresaad held his gaze with an inscrutable look. If he were not Qunari—if Francis did not know better—he would argue Beresaad was _enjoying_ how mysterious and alarming he seemed to the Orlesians.

“What makes you think we will be more familiar?” Beresaad looked more interested now, if only entertained. It could not have been stimulating, just standing there by the wall.

“Why, because I mean for us to be,” Francis said. “And I’m _ever_ so charming.”

“Are you?” The flat tone of Beresaad’s voice and the slant of his mouth suggested amusement.

“Don’t you think so?” Francis asked.

“I cannot say that I do. I have not seen much so far,” Beresaad replied.

“The night is young,” Francis said.

It was in its infancy—and Beresaad was not the only one to whom Francis owed conversation. Still, only the appearance of Madame de Fer pulled him from this, and he excused himself to speak with her, most notably about _how_ she had managed to convince a Qunari to come to a party.

Apparently, it was not as difficult as one might think. They had practically _asked_ to be invited. Vivienne and Francis agreed this was exceedingly odd, and she advised that, as he seemed to be getting along well with the Qunari, he might investigate further and see what could be learned.

The evening passed in the twinkling of candlelight off jeweled bosoms and the emptying of champagne flutes and the usual four-sided conversations that populated Orlesian parties. Continually, Francis’ attention sought to return to Beresaad; nothing else, even a rousing discussion on the style of shoes rolling in for the season, seemed worth his engagement.

“Any word from Tevinter?” Emma asked him as they sampled a tray of bite-sized pastries. The serving girl holding them had to double over to allow the dwarf to select one. Francis had not seen Emma in Val Royeaux in some time, but word had it she had been out building an impressive coalition of trade partners and he didn’t doubt it.

“No, I believe that ship has sailed, as they say,” Francis said.

“Oh. Sorry about that,” she said with a sympathetic frown. Francis averted his gaze and bit into the pastry, not tasting a bit of it. Emma referred to Antonio, a Tevene visitor to Val Royeaux some three years ago. Francis had not heard from him in more than a year and a half. His heart still ached.

“But I heard _you_ have managed to barter a deal with the Montilyets! How did you manage to get around their ban on trading in the city?” Emma regaled him with the story, which involved an assassination and several illegal nug variants being smuggled cross-border, and they forgot about the woes of Francis’ heart.

He lost track of Beresaad for chunks of the evening, but from what he did see, he did not get much in the way of conversation. He was an oddity, that’s why Madame Vivienne had brought him there, and he would be foolish not to recognize it. If he had come willingly, he must have expected it. So why put up with being treated like a novelty in a menagerie? What was there to gain?

Sometime before midnight, Francis saw Beresaad slip out into the gardens. He waited several minutes before following.

Out in the gardens of the Ghislain estate, the moon drifted in and out of cloud cover, sometimes beaming down on the white marble steps and other times cloaking the shaped shrubs and quietly burbling fountains in darkness. The party inside only barely penetrated the silence around the estate, sounding as if it came from a great distance rather than right behind the door that had just closed behind Francis.

Beresaad sat on one of the benches, looking out over the garden. His broad hands curled over the edge of the bench, his shoulders slightly hunched. When Francis looked at the tension in the vast plane of his back, he hesitated, wondering if it would not be better to just go back inside. But no—the Qunari would not send an ambassador so weak-willed as to kill someone just for annoying them, if it were so. If he had misread their last interaction.

“Was the party not to your taste?” he asked.

“I just needed a bit of fresh air,” the Qunari replied without turning. “Was it not to _your_ taste?”

“Oh, very much,” Francis said. “But not as much as you.” Beresaad snorted.

“If you want me, it’s because I’m exotic to you,” he said, twisting to look at Francis. He had removed his domino mask; it sat in his lap and Francis could see the full tableau of his face, lovingly crafted by some divine hand—the Maker, or whomever else might watch over them. The line of his solid jaw alone was worth at least a novella of poetry.

“There’s more to it than that, but yes, that is part of it,” Francis said. “Doesn’t that mean _I’m_ exotic to _you_? Or have you met too many humans now to care?” The horizon of Beresaad’s shoulders went up and down.

“I’ve met plenty of humans, but I have not known many.”

“Are you going to be stationed long in Val Royeaux?” Francis asked, keeping his distance. He had made his intentions clear—there was no need to crowd him now.

“That depends,” Beresaad replied.

“Depends on what?” Francis asked.

“What the Qun demands.” Wasn’t that what everything depended on?

“Why did the Triumvirate send you here? Surely not over the threat to Celene’s throne.” For the first time that night, something almost like passed over the Qunari’s face.

“Perhaps I’m here just to get to know our neighbors,” he said. Francis barked out a laugh.

“The Qunari suddenly being neighborly? Nothing could be more suspicious,” he said.

“More than _bas-saarebas_ inviting a Qunari to her party?” Beresaad returned. Francis couldn’t immediately argue with that, and while he paused for response, Beresaad posed another question: “Do you Orlesians always wear those masks?”

“Most often, yes,” Francis said. “It’s so uncultured to go about bare-faced. Just look at Kirkland—here at a party and no mask! It’s not like he doesn’t have the money for it. He just likes to be difficult. Makes him feel more at home. Fereldens, you know.”

“Do you wear them even at home?” Beresaad asked.

“That depends on the situation.” Francis folded his arms and stared Beresaad down from behind the mask. “You would have to visit an Orlesian to know.”

“I suppose I’ll never see you without then,” Beresaad said, a note of—perhaps regret? Or suggestion?—in his voice.

“Did you want to?” Francis asked, a toasty flame lighting low in his chest. Beresaad gave another half-hearted shrug. “I could propose a trade,” Francis suggested smoothly, taking a seat on the bench, facing the opposite direction. He leaned back to look at Beresaad. “I’ll take the mask off if you tell me something more personal I can call you.”

Beresaad’s mouth twitched. “Do all Orlesians bargain like this?”

“Oh, of course,” Francis said. “We never give favors away.”

“Well, then I supposed I must, to ingratiate myself into Orlesian society, huh?” Beresaad’s ears twitched charmingly and there was a look on his face that was not quite a smile which Francis thought might have been a Qunari version of smiling.

“Yes, I think you’d better,” Francis said. “When in Minrathous, and so on.”

“Who goes first then?” Beresaad asked.

“You’re rather open for a Qunari, aren’t you?” Francis said.

“I’ve spent a lot of time out of Par Vollen,” he said. “And I don’t back down on challenges from pretty boy Orlesian nobles.”

“Now won’t you feel terrible if I take this mask off and I’m not pretty at all?”

“I don’t believe that will be the case.”

“I would agree, but I’ll leave it up to you.” Francis reached around to untie the ribbon holding his mask in place and let it fall into his hand. Beresaad was making a face like he was trying to stop that grin from showing up bigger and better on his face.

“Now what do you do if I walk away without telling you anything?” he asked.

“Feel terribly disappointed and help myself to an excess of alcohol, and complain to my wife the whole the carriage ride home,” he said. Beresaad let out a huff, which sounded like suppressed laughter.

“I would pity your wife,” Beresaad said. “If you prefer, you can call me Sadik.”

“See? We’re getting familiar already.” Francis smirked.

“I wouldn’t start your career in fortune-telling just yet,” Sadik said.

“Fortunate-telling!” Francis scoffed. “I rely on nothing as flighty and changeable. My conclusions are based on _fact_.”

“Oh? And what facts are those?” Sadik lifted his chin and somehow the absence of the mask heightened, rather than lessened, his intimidating aura. Perhaps because it reminded Francis that the Qunari was not beholden to Orlesian rules and expectations—he would play along as long as it suited his goals, but he was not caged by it as the rest of them were.

“That if you disliked me and were not interested, we would not be sitting here having this conversation,” Francis said.

“Perhaps I’m simply bored and you are the only entertaining thing here,” Sadik conjectured.

“I may be the _most_ interesting thing, but I am far from the _only_ interesting thing,” Francis said confidently. “And I don’t believe that is the case.”

“Don’t you?” Sadik leaned in and Francis fought the dual urges to lean away, and to get closer.

“I suppose time will tell,” he replied, holding steady. “This is after all, only the beginning of the season.” Maintaining Sadik’s gaze, he lifted his mask and re-tied it in place. “I look forward to seeing what the rest of it brings us.” He rose to his feet. “It’s been a pleasure, Sadik.”

“Is your curiosity about First Enchanter Vivienne’s _unusual sight_ sated?” The Qunari rose from the bench to face Francis, giving him another shock with how _tall_ he was. Could he even walk through the stables without getting stuck?

“Hardly,” Francis replied. “But what’s the fun in answering all one’s questions at once?” A faint smirk flitted over his lips.

“Orlesians are very fond of games,” Sadik said, his mouth turning down.

“We think life is a wonderful game,” Francis said. “But you, Sadik, may wind up as part of the Great Game. And that interests me.” The Qunari still looked displeased, but Francis was unperturbed. “Are you in some rush? There is plenty of time for life’s questions to be unraveled.” Bold words from a man with very little sense of patience. “ _Adieu,_ Sadik. I imagine it will not be long before I see you again.”

“We will see how well your predictions fare this time,” Sadik said. “Panahedon…?”

“Francis,” the nobleman supplied. Sadik seemed to consider this, so Francis held until Sadik spoke again.

“Panahedon, Francis. I will wait with interest on your prediction.” Francis did not allow himself to smile at this, but the pleasure of it curled out from his chest into his extremities. The Qunari were not know for their effusive nature, so the significance of Sadik’s understated remark did not go over Francis’ head.

“As will I. Enjoy the party.” Francis gave Sadik a little wave, wiggling his fingers, and took his time strolling indolently back to the mansion.

Madame de Fer had the best parties in all of Orlais—and Francis could not _wait_ for the next one.

**Author's Note:**

> Might possibly do more with this AU? You know they're going to make ALL the wrong decisions.
> 
> It would've made sense to make Arthur a mage but I wanted him at the party to have catty banter with Francis and he can't do that if he's stuck in the Circle so...tragically magic-less Arthur.
> 
> I stole Francis' marriage from Cardverse because I needed to marry him to someone I don't ship him with XD Francis and Elise were a political marriage and they're both comfortable with that. They're not in love, but they're partners.  
> 
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/189376806005/fandom-hetalia-x-dragon-age-pairing-france-x)
> 
> [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/936710)


End file.
